


The Table's Italian!

by NBWerewolfLover



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Claiming Bites, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Good Peter Hale, Humor, M/M, Marking, Mates, Rimming, Smut, Stiles Stilinski is Seventeen Years Old, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 09:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NBWerewolfLover/pseuds/NBWerewolfLover
Summary: Peter is viciously possessive and protective of his possessions, but that flies out the window with Stiles in his sights.





	The Table's Italian!

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Итальянский стол !](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253284) by [Ferret2019](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferret2019/pseuds/Ferret2019)



> This is my very first attempt at writing a fanfic. So here we go...

‘Ugh!’ Stiles thumps his head on the steering wheel of his jeep, just to rub his forehead the next second.  ‘Ow!’

 

He is currently sitting in his jeep, still in the school parking lot.  The day sucked… well sucked more than usual. Scott ignored him and of course Liam followed his lead, but that is just same old same old, right?  Then there was the math quiz that he forgot to study for, and last but certainly not least, somebody bumped into him at lunch and said lunch and soda spectacularly decorated his plaid shirt, leaving him in just his t-shirt.  

 

Why is that such a disaster, you may ask? Well this particular t-shirt, if you can call it that, forms part of Lydia’s intervention plan.  Or more like battle plan. Mission name: Plaid Annihilation...or Butt Strangulation.

 

Seriously, all the shirts are skin tight and low cut an the jeans are so tight he can’t feel his butt cheeks.  Allright, slight exaggeration, but still. His plaid shirt was supposed to act as a shield. Just because he’s being forced to wear the new wardrobe doesn’t mean he isn’t going to cover it up with his trusted long plaid shirts.  

 

Well that was the plan until lasagne happened.

 

He felt ridiculous parading around like this. Skinny ass exposed for all to see, not to mention his package (which isn’t exactly small).  He could feel the scrutinising, mocking looks burn holes in his back the whole day.

 

Stiles is still rubbing his poor abused forehead when his phone pings with an incoming message.  He seriously considers ignoring it. Probably just somebody that needs him to do something. Seems like that is the only time anyone talks to him these days, when they want something.  Of cause he doesn't ignore it.

 

A small smile lights up his face when he sees who it’s from.

 

Peter

 

Peter is the only one of of the Pack that actually talks to him (read snark) without an ulterior motive.  Without wanting something (the irony is not lost on him). Well...he makes all kinds of sexual innuendos, but Stiles knows he isn’t being serious.  Someone as hot as Peter (you will never hear him admit that out loud) wouldn’t be interested in his pale, skinny and frankly irritating, spazzy ass. (He knows okay, even his dad can’t cope with his ADHD most days).

 

From Zombiewolf:   Stiles.  Have something that might interested you.  If you are interested, stop by the loft after school.  Peter

 

‘The smug bastard’ he mumbles.  ‘He knows I wouldn’t be able to resist.  Way to curious for that.’ 

 

So, still smiling and turning the radio louder, he pulls out of the parking, almost running Greenberg over, and heads to the loft.

 

*****

Stiles doesn't bother knocking, just pulls the door open, almost falls on his ass, and walks in.

 

‘Great!’ he huffs, shoulders sagging, when he sees that the loft is in fact empty.

 

He stands in the middle of the open space combing his fingers through his hair, trying to decide if he should just go, maybe take a nap before tackling homework.

 

Just as he turns to leave, he hears footsteps on the stairs.

 

Of Cause .

 

Peter bloody well knew he was here even before he entered the building, but he just had to make a dramatic entrance.

 

‘Stiles’ he all but purrs as he slowly saunters down the spiral staircase.

 

Stiles swears Peter does that every time he gets a chance because he knows it shows of his sexy body to the best.   Those long legs, those abs and pecs showing through his skin tight white v-neck and that ass...oh! that ass encased in even tighter dark blue jeans!   Stiles shakes his head to clear it of those treacherous thoughts.

 

Peter’s mouth curl up into a knowing smirk.

 

The bastard.

 

The smirk falls from his face though when he gets to the bottom and sets his eyes on Stiles.  Stiles is a skin tight blue v-neck t-shirt and black skinny jeans.

 

And Stiles...Stiles is very confused and a little freaked out, because Peter is just standing there, mouth hanging open, eyes wide and sweeping over him.

 

‘Peter?’  Stiles asks hesitantly.  Nothing.

‘Peter’ he waves his hand in front of his face, only a little worried that it might get bitten off.

And just like that the moment is gone and Peter’s face an unreadable mask.

‘Is everything okay?’ Stiles all but whispers.

And que the smirk!

‘Of cause, sweetheart’.

 

Peter makes his way to the desk, picks up a thick book and holds it out to Stiles.

‘Well, come on darling, take it.  It’s yours’ he says when Stiles fails to take it immediately.

‘What is it?’ Stiles asks as he turns the book over in his hands.  He can feel the excitement rising up in him as he takes in the strange symbols on the old leather cover.

‘ It must be old.  Very old!’ he thinks in wonder.

‘It’s a Grimoire.  Polish in origin’ Peter answers with a small smile.

‘Wow.’  Stiles doesn’t know what to say.  ‘I mean, wow Peter. Thank you. I will get it back to you as soon as I’m finished with it’ he mumbles as he runs his hands appreciatively over the ox blood cover.

‘No, darling.  It’s yours’ Peter states softly.  Voice sounding almost hopeful, making Stiles snap his head up, almost giving himself whiplash.

 

There is no smirk or smug smile on Peter’s face as he expected to find.  His face is devoid of emotions but his eyes...his eyes is the softest Stiles has ever seen them.  The rest of his body is tense though, like he is expecting Stiles to throw the book, his gift, back in his face.

 

And that...that is just…

 

‘Thank you Peter’  Stiles says again sincerely while looking Peter dead in the eye, making sure that the knows how much he appreciates the gift.

 

With that a small smile plays over Peter’s lips and he looks down.

 

‘Uhm’  Stiles clears his throat, feeling really awkward.  He rubs the back of his neck as the silence stretches.

‘Oh! yea’  he exclaims, thankful to have found something to say.  Something to break the silence. ‘I’m finished with the book you lent me.’  He crouches down to dig through his back pack. ‘Here you go’ he says standing back up.

 

What Stiles doesn’t realise is that as he bent down his pants pulled down in the back, exposing his black boxer shorts...and the top most part of his bubble butt.  And when he gets back up his tight new t-shirt rucks up, exposing his happy trail and the beginning's of a six pack.

 

Stiles has about a second to contemplate why Peter isn’t answering with some snarky comment or threat about the  ‘integrity of the tomb I entrusted to you Stiles’ before he finds himself airborne.

 

He lets out a squeak (No, a very manly grunt, thank you) as his back hits a flat, hard surface.

 

The first thing that registers in his mind when his brain comes back on line is that he is currently looking up at the wooden beams of the loft’s ceiling.  

The second is that he is completely covered in the solid weight of a growly werewolf.  

The third...the third is...Oh! crap, the table!  The smooth, hard surface under him is the coffee table.  The Italian coffee table!

 

Peter has said it a hundred times at least.  ‘ The table’s Italian!’ And it has led to at least as many incidences of near throat ripping on the account that the Pack doesn’t care where the table came from or how much it cost.

 

Stiles could never for the life of him figure out why anybody, especially Peter, would look at the empty, industrial loft with a hole in the wall, often frequented by a Pack of rowdy, supernaturally strong teengagers and inhabited by a Sourwolf, and decide what it needs is a ten thousand Dollar imported coffee table.

 

The point is, all Stiles can think of now is that he doesn’t even know what he did to piss Peter off this royally, to warrant pinning Stiles down with fangs...Oh! shit, yeah those are frangs scraping against the side of his neck, but when Peter realises that he, Stiles, is currently on THE TABLE, he is going to rip his throat out, then find a way to resurrect him and do it again.

 

‘Peter?’ he croaks, his heart racing.

‘Peter?’ he tries again, a little louder this time, which earns him a nip with the above mentioned fangs.

‘Eeeeep!’ 

‘ Breathe...Breathe Stiles ’  he coaches himself in his mind.  ‘ Calm down and breathe .’

 

When his breathing has calmed down somewhat, he arches his back in an attempt to push him off (yea okay, stupid idea!), which results in a low growl making its way out of Peter mouth and fangs now biting down, but not breaking skin, in the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

 

‘Okay, okay Wolfy.’

 

Turning his head a little in each direction, Stiles searches desperately for a way out of this.  That when he notices that Peter’s claws are currently gouging into the wood next to his head.

 

‘Oh! shiiiiit!  I am so dead!’   His breathing and heartrate skyrockets again.

 

‘Look Peter I’m sorry.  For whatever I did, I’m sorry okay!’ 

 

He is really close to tears by now and he can definitely feel a panic attack approaching.  Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath he tries to centre himself for a moment, trying to fight back the wave of panic.  When he opens his eyes again he is looking straight into brilliant blue eyes. His breath hitches. Peter’s face, no fangs or sideburns in sight, is mere inches from his.  A big warm hand cups his jaw as Peter leans in even closer, so close that they are sharing each breath.

 

‘Oh sweetheart, you did nothing wrong’ he states, his eyes fond.

All that escapes Stiles’ mouth is a confused whine.

‘Shh, it’s okay.’  Peter continues, running a thumb under one of his eyes.   A Tear?

All of the sudden his expression turns predatory.

‘Now, how about we talk about this new look of yours’ he purrs, soft as silk.

 

And Stiles thinks,  ‘O’ great!  Another person that is going to point out just how stupid it is for someone as scrawny as me to be wearing clothes this tight!’   But this is Peter and that...that really brings tears to his eyes.  Because Peter is hot like burning. Obviously. But not just that, Stiles likes him okay.  Really, Really likes him. He is ridiculously strong (much stronger than he even lets on) even for a werewolf, sexy, super inteligent, well read, curious but also witty, sarcastic, cunning and viciously protective of the ones he loves and just so...Peter.

So Stiles tenses up and waits for the hurt.

 

Peter runs his left hand slowly across Stiles’ chest and down his side until he reaches the hem of his t-shirt and dips his thumb under it until he reaches skin.

 

‘Did you pick this on purpose?’  At that Stiles freezes, because  What?   ‘Did you know how crazy it would drive me?’  Peter whispers against his lips and bumps their noses together.  ‘To see this’ his whole hand disappears under Stiles’ shirt just to flatten warm against his belly ‘tight sexy little body of yours on display.’ 

‘Whaaat?’  Stiles manages to stammer out as he feels  blush working itself up his neck and cheekbones.  Stiles’ scent sour with panic turns slightly sweet with hope, spiced with arousal.  But then his insecurities make an unwelcome appearance and his scent turns bitter with shame and hurt.  He start to wiggle to try and get away, trying to get his arms between then to push him off.

 

‘Peter, please stop!  Stop messing with me, not...not about this’ the forces out, voice shaky, ending in a hiccup.  Tears well up in his eyes, amber almost translucent.

 

‘Darling!  Darling! Look at me’ Peter implores cradling his face in his big warm hands.

 

After a long pause Stiles hesitantly looks up at Peter, eyes hidden behind dark lashes pearled with tears.

 

‘I would never...NEVER make light of this...of us.’  Peter’s eyes hold none of its usual mocking, knowing expression.  They are the most vulnerable and cincere Stiles has ever seen them and he knows deep down that he is also the only one that has ever seen this Peter.  ‘I have always liked you, Stiles. Darling you are one of the most intelligent and cunning individuals I have ever met. One of the only to ever be able to keep up with me mentally.  You are also loyal to a fault. You my dear heart are in one word Magnificent.’ 

 

At that Stiles’ heart skips a beat and his eyes flutter. 

 

‘You are also gorgeous’  Peter’s eyes turn heated, ‘and sexy as hell.’  He punctuates the last part by grinding down into him.

 

Stiles forgets how to breathe for a moment because  ‘Oh...oh!...that is Peters very hard, apparently very sizable erection grinding into him.’ 

 

‘ Feel that?  Feel that, baby?  It’s for you. Only ever you’ he whispers the last part against Stiles’ mouth, lips ghosting over his, blue eyes staring into his.

 

And Stiles thinks  Fuck it.  Fuck all his doubts and insecurities.  This is what he has wanted since the first time he has laid eyes on the wolf.  On his wolf.  So he surges up and closes the gap between them.  Pressing his lips against him in a declaration but also in a plea.   Don’t hurt me.  Love me as I love you.

 

Peter tangles his finger in Stiles’ hair, tilting his head like he wants it, while he works his right arm under Stiles’ arched back, bringing Stiles flush against him.

 

Stiles’s first thought is that Peter’s lips are surprisingly soft and that Peter doesn’t kiss like the expected he would.  Peters lips are gentle and patient, not insistent and aggressive.

 

Peter gently nips at his bottom lip just to sooth it with little kitten licks and when Peter runs his tongue over the crease of his lips, asking for entrance, he gives it readily.  

 

As Peters tongue slips into his mouth and touches his Stiles swears he feels a bolt of electricity running through him setting every nerve ending on fire.  And when Peter laps at the roof of his mouth, kissing him deep and slow, like he is sipping an expensive vintage of wine, he can no longer hold back the filthy moan from escaping his mouth, right into Peters.  He start to grind and writh against Peter in earnest.

 

When Peter pulls away he all but sobs.

 

‘Shh Darling’ Peter’s expression turns deadly serious.  Looking deep into Stiles’ warm whiskey eyes, ‘Baby, do you want to take this upstairs?  Will you allow me to show you how much I love you?’ 

 

Stiles wrapped his legs around Peter’s middle with a enthusiastic ‘Hell yes!  Yes! Yes! I love you too’.

 

Later he wouldn’t remember how they got upstairs.

 

He will remember with a warm glow around his heart, how Peter gently removed his clothes, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin.  Sucking bruises into his inner thighs. 

Peter gently turning him onto his stomach, reverently kissing his opening, laving it with his tongue, turning Stiles into a moaning, blubbering mess.

 

Finally slipping a finger into him, brushing, moving against the velvet lining inside him.  

 

By the time he has three fingers inside him Stiles has his face pressed into a pillow, ass in the air, chanting  peterpeterpeterpleasepleasepleasealphaalphaalpha!

 

When Peter turns him his back, hands laced beside his head, legs wrapped tightly around Peter’s hips pulling him closer, and finally slips inside with one long, slow slide, Stiles is openly sobbing head thrown back in ecstasy.

 

Their eyes remain locked as Peter moves in him with slow, deep thrusts.  Claiming him over and over again.

 

When Peter bites down hard on the juncture between his neck and shoulder, marking him as his, he comes so hards he sees stars and promptly blacks out.

 

*****

When the Pack arrives at the loft the first thing they notice as they step in the door is the coffee table (the second is the distinctive smell of sex, but that’s not important in face of the table!).  The italian coffee table!

The ridiculously expensive table that Peter guards with murderous urgency, the table that now has deep claw marks running down its length.

After a moment of dumbfounded silence all eyes turn to Derek.  Who just glares at then with eyebrows clearly conveying  ‘Why the hell are you looking at me for?’

‘Dude, if it wasn’t you, who was it?’  Scott asks.

‘Ooh!  Somebody’s gonna die!’  Erica cackles.

Boys just crosses his arms and grunts.

 

They alls spin around and freeze in abject terror when they hear footsteps coming down the stairs.

 

‘Ah!  Nephew and...delightfull teenage miscreants’.

 

Nobody answers or moves except Scott who is trying to subtly inch his way in front of the table to block Peters line of vision.

 

‘Peter, what are you doing here?  I don’t recall inviting you to the pack meeting’  Derek grunts, charming as always.

 

Before Peter can answer loud clattering, stumbling footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs.

 

Half falling down the stairs, Stiles is still pulling on his shirt, one hand rubbing his butt, thus he doesn’t notice the speechless, slack jawed pack gaping at him.

 

‘Dude, I won’t be able to sit or walk straight tomorrow on account of you pounding me into next Sunday, but did you really have to bite by ass cheek too?’

 

Noticing the resounding silence he glances up and almost swallows his tongue , his face going up in flames.

 

After the silence drags on for a really uncomfortable amount of time, wich Peter spends puffing out his chest and smirking, Peter decides its gone on long enough, he has better things to do, like ravaging his mate again in the comfort of his own apartment.

‘Well...if no one needs my expert advice, we will be going’ Peter declares and throws a squealing Stiles over his shoulder.

 

The pack stands frozen in mortified silence as Peter carries Stiles down the stairs.  Just before they exit the building the wolves hear a little voice pipe up.

 

‘Peter?’

‘Yes, baby?’

‘Are you going to kiss it better?’  The voice sounds teasing but also hopeful.

Peter’s thundering laugh ecos up the stairs, startling the pack into a fear stricken huddle in the corner.

‘Oh darling, I was counting on it.’


End file.
